Press conferences were my own personal hell. Crews from broadcast television packed the aisles and beat writers hugged the front of the room as national columnists pressed in from all sides.
Along the back of the wall, conveniently tucked away from the cameras, a group of League brass watched me with their arms folded. Their suits rustled when they shifted and glared at me.
My General Manager sat near the public relations specialist, both of them with frowns on their faces.
Alex, one of the League’s public relations representatives, leaned close to me. “Two rules, Colt. Stay on message, and don’t swing.”
I’d been prepped before today’s presser. They’d made it clear: hands open, palms flat on the table.
No fists.
Numbers flew through my mind before anyone ever asked the first question. I knew what was at stake for me financially. Eight million a year on paper though six percent falls straight into escrow. Taxes carve out another huge chunk. Agent always gets his cut.
If I miss a single game, fifty thousand disappears, and that’s if they treat it as a first offense. If I wear the repeat tag, it can climb toward a hundred grand a night. Off the ice sits another one to two million in sponsorship deals which can freeze if a fight video keeps looping.
Alex leaned toward the mics. “Statement.”
My eyes met the red dot on the center camera, and I did my best to keep a neutral face.
“I take full responsibility for my actions,” I said. “I lost control, and I’m suspended. Moving forward, I’m doing the work the League requires of me to reinstate myself. That’s my statement.”
Pens immediately moved across compact notebooks as lenses clicked. A boom mic drifted closer and asked—demanded—that I say more.
One local reporter chimed in before anyone else could speak. “Mr. Mitchell, what do you say to the parents who brought their kids to this particular game?”
I shook my head. “I put something out there and I can’t take it back. I’m not proud of it, and to be honest, I’m sorry they saw it.”
A national reporter joined in. “How would you classify your temperament; do you have an anger problem?”
I looked down at my feet on top of the cables and searched for an answer.
“My job asks for contact,” I said as I returned my gaze to the reporter’s, “it’s a physical sport. I crossed a line in the game and I’m in anger management. It’s not a spin I’m placing on the story; it’s real work.”
“What triggered it?” a reporter in the back asked.
I couldn’t see her face.
“Was it all the Mercer talk?” she pressed. “The score? Personal life, relationships?”
In my mind, a Prius in a wet parking lot tried to surface. But I shoved it down and reminded myself to answer the question.
“I take ownership of what transpired,” I said. “I’m not here to sell any excuses.”
A bulb popped in the back and stole my focus.
I loathed this room. It reeked of old coffee and damp coats. The League’s top counsel murmured to someone by the door with a concerned look on their face.
Assessing me.
“You say you’re owning it,” a woman in a blue blazer said in the aisle. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve made headlines. Why should fans believe you’ll change? And, furthermore, why should sponsors believe you’ll change?”
Fuck.
League brass always freaked out anytime someone brought up the precious sponsors.
“My job is to hit clean and skate hard, to give it my best,” I answered. “And, most importantly, to remain calm. Unfortunately, in this case, I didn’t. Trust will return when I put the right kind of hockey game on the ice. Words won’t do the trick, and I know that.”
Someone called out from the back. “Are you a role model?”
